


Bloody Mary To Go

by missingnowrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia Martin, Future Fic, Gen, Vampire Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingnowrites/pseuds/missingnowrites
Summary: A vampire walks into a bar. A banshee walks out.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	Bloody Mary To Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Equilibrium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/991715) by [entanglednow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow). 



> I got into a Teen Wolf binge this last month and a half despite never having seen the show, partially in hope to inspire myself for Misfits. While that worked, it also backfired so uh... there might be a ficlet or two for TW going up over the next couple months :'D

There was a bar, a bit east of the Beacon Hills territory, where supernatural creatures liked to gather. The front room was small and cozy, but if you knew the secret or were with someone who did, they’d allow you into a secret room behind the bar where the real party took place. The door back was guarded by a female werewolf this evening, an omega from the look of her.

Stiles walked past the bar with a confident swagger and flashed his fangs at the bouncer. The woman eyed him over her crossed arms, giving him a short nod and stepping aside to let him into the backroom. The room was dimly lit, but that wasn’t a problem for Stiles, his eyes adjusting with preternatural swiftness. He let his gaze flicker over the occupants.

A couple werewolves were playing pool with a nymph to his left, with cues made out of mountain ash for additional stability. On his right several creatures of the night sat at a table playing cards, a familiar red-head among them. Stiles ignored them, turning around to face the bar behind him.

“A Bloody Mary, please,” he told the bartender, a witch if he’d had to guess. His sense of smell wasn’t as developed as a wolf’s, but her necklace seemed like something a practitioner would wear. Her hands worked swiftly, pulling tabs and adding liquid to his glass, before handing it over to him without a word. Stiles slid the money across the counter and took his drink with him to an empty table next to the card players.

“-not from here. Rumour is to avoid passing through Beacon Hills.” A broad-shouldered man shrugged, drawing a card and wincing. He discarded another, then went on, “Can’t figure out why though. The pack’s, what, three betas and an alpha? They can’t be very dangerous.”

“That’s a good way to get killed,” another man snorted, picking up the discarded card before studying his cards intently. Stiles watched him from the corner of his eyes. A wendigo, he thought. “‘Sides, friend of mine met them, and she says that half the pack is not wolf.”

“What else would they be?” the first man questioned, looking up from his cards and frowning. The wendigo shrugged.

“Druids, maybe? Every strong pack has an Emissary.” He laid down five of his cards in an array on the table, the other players groaning or huffing in disgust.

“I hear it’s actually a banshee,” the red-head chimed in, smile curving invitingly around her perfectly painted lips. She looked up from under her long lashes at the first man, her eyes bleeding into black. “It’s rare, for banshees to join up with wolves.”

“You would know, sweetheart,” the wendigo drawled. Lydia narrowed her eyes at him and swiped one of his laid down cards on the way back from the drawing pile. “It’s not wendigoes, that’s for sure. The family that lived up there for years was killed just a couple years back, and no one dared settle in Beacon Hills since.”

“Same goes for witches,” one of the other ladies at the table offered, beckoning the wendigo with black painted nails to hand over one of his cards. “Not since Morrell left. Though last I heard, her brother still lives there.”

“Probably the Emissary,” the wendigo suggested, handing the card over with a grimace. “Deaton’s a druid, and he used to be the old Hale pack’s Emissary, too. Stands to reason he got picked up by the new Hale pack as well.”

“I just wanna pass through, man,” the first man protested. Stiles slanted his gaze his way, but couldn’t tell what kind of being he was from just a glance. “‘S not like I’ll be sticking around to borrow trouble or anything.”

Stiles watched and listened as they went around the table a couple more rounds, sipping from his blood cocktail. Obviously, Lydia won, and the wendigo stood up in a fit, leaving for the bar, muttering curses and insults under his breath. Stiles stood as well, taking the opportunity it presented and sliding into the free seat.

“Deal me in?” he asked, shooting the man - he was pretty sure he was a shapeshifter of some kind, but not a werewolf - the two witches, and Lydia a charming smile. Lydia dealt him a hand without acknowledging him, and he set his drink down on the table. The shapeshifter across from him scrunched up his nose and leaned back.

“Is that blood?” he asked, lips curling in distaste. Stiles hummed agreeably, taking a demonstrative sip from the straw.

“Mixed with vodka, I believe. Gotta stay close to those original cocktail recipes, dude.”

“You’re a vampire,” the witch who had remained silent this entire time stated, leaning forward and propping her elbows on the table. Stiles flashed her a hint of fang and blatantly looked her up and down.

“And you’re a witch. Not a druid, I don’t think.” He cocked his head to the side, then let his gaze slide over to her companion. “Same coven?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, then jerked her chin in an approximation of a nod. Stiles arched an eyebrow, but leaned back in his chair and checked his cards. Not a bad hand to start with, though he wasn’t sure by exactly what rules they were playing. That was half the fun when playing with supernatural beings.

The wendigo returned with his drink, growling at Stiles in his chair, before pulling up another and plopping down next to him, motioning for Lydia to deal him in.

“Rare to see bloodsuckers around here,” he mentioned, flashing silver eyes at Stiles.

“Not as rare as your kind,” Stiles drawled in response, letting the red wash over his own eyes. Scott had described it once, back when Stiles was first turned, like blood dripping down from his lids to cover his iris and pupil. It was a dull crimson, didn’t have an alpha’s glow, and was wiped away with his next blink. “I don’t think the Hale pack is very welcoming towards wendigos.”

“They tend to die. With prejudice,” Lydia chipped in, smile curling around the bloodthirst in her voice. The wendigo bared his fangs, and Stiles forced himself to hold still and not get between them anymore than he did by simply sitting there.

“See?” he said instead, turning his smirk onto the wendigo. “I know of at least one vampire who lives in Beacon Hills.”

“No way,” one of the witches scoffed, and the shapeshifter looked uncertainly between them. 

“Yes way,” Stiles replied dryly, raising his cocktail to his lips. “Sitting before you, in fact.”

The witches exchanged a look, nerves turning to something more sinister. Greedy.

“You live in Beacon Hills?” the quieter of the two inquired, a sudden hunger to her voice. “And the pack haven’t found you yet.”

It was phrased like a question, but it sounded more like a statement. Stiles considered correcting her, but shrugged. She would find out soon enough, and in the meantime, maybe she would reveal her hand.

“Our coven’s been trying to… expand,” the other witch murmured, lowering her lashes demurely. Stiles raised a brow at her antics, wondering who she was kidding. “The land is… powerful. As I’m sure you know.” She flashed him an enigmatic smile. “It needs… guidance.”

“And I suppose you think yourselves right for the job?” Lydia interjected, bodily moving to interrupt her sightline, ostensibly to draw a card. Ah. A spell then, one he hadn’t detected, but Lydia picked up on.

“Better us than a trumped up banshee bitch who needs pack protection,” the witch hissed, sneering at Lydia. Stiles’ fangs pressed against his lower lip at the insult, but he reigned himself in. “There’s only one reason she would ally herself with the last Hale and his dogs. If she were more powerful, the Nemeton-”

“Ah. That’s it, then?” Stiles sighed, tilting his head to Lydia. “Why is it always the Nemeton?”

Her lips quirked up, but her gaze remained on the witches, keeping them pinned. Stiles dropped his cards on the table, pretty sure it was a winning hand, and turned his attention to the shapeshifter.

“What about you then? Why do you wish to trespass on claimed territory?” He tilted his head further, catching the flash of blue light in the shifter’s eyes and forcing eye contact. His hypnosis wasn’t the best, not on supernatural creatures, not without knowing what they are or what they want, but it should be enough to nudge the answer to the forefront of the shifter’s mind. “If that is what you were going to do, anyway.”

"I thought the Hale pack objected to vampires on their territory," the shifter said instead of answering. He cocked his head in an expression of almost canine curiosity. "Word is Hale objects to most creatures on principal."

"They've got a werecoyote in their pack," Stiles replied with a shrug, taking a stab in the dark and watching the shifter intently. "A kitsune, too."

"Barely enough wolves in that group to call themselves a pack at all," the wendigo grumbled into his beer.

The shifter studied him with a thoughtful frown. "How do you know?" he asked him finally.

The wendigo's eyes widened and he scooted his chair away from Stiles' with a sharp screech of wood on tile that quieted the whole bar room, drawing curious eyes.

"You live in Beacon Hills," the wendigo reiterated the fact. Disbelief coloured his voice. "But you're a vampire!"

"Yes, and yes," Stiles agreed, amused. "As we've already established."

“The Hale pack doesn’t allow trespassers to live on their territory,” a werewolf objected from the pool table. “Especially not other creatures of the night.” Especially not _vampires_ , they didn’t say, but everyone heard it anyway.

Stiles shrugged. “There’s rules. You break the rules, the pack breaks you.”

“You-” The wendigo’s attention snapped over to Lydia, who had her back turned to Stiles, trusting him to protect her from what she couldn’t see, having to focus on the thrall she’d cast the witches in. “You’re a banshee. You said-” He was fairly frothing at the mouth now, stumbling over his own words. “The Hale pack- banshee- you’re her. You’re one of them.”

Lydia tossed her hair over her should and tilted her head in acknowledgement, all without looking at any of them.

“Why are you here?” one of the other werewolves spoke up, the room’s attention zeroing in on Lydia and forgetting all about Stiles as he slid into the shadows. “If you’re pack, this is- you’re- Are you the Emissary?”

“Please.” Lydia sniffed and finally turned her back on the witches, who slumped against each other, seemingly unconscious. Or perhaps asleep. “I’m third in command.”

At this, the group of werewolves straightened, and an unnatural hush fell over the room.

“Third of the Hale Pack,” one of them said, stepping in front of the rest. “What brings you here to this establishment?”

“Threat assessment,” Lydia replied bluntly, jerking her head at the unconscious witches. The werewolf frowned, opening her mouth, but before she could react, the wendigo sprang up, looking around wildly.

“Where’d he go?” His eyes were wide, wild with something akin to panic. “The vampire, he was just here, where did he-”

“Looks like he left,” the shifter said, shaking his head. He turned to Lydia and bowed his head. “Third of the Hale Pack, I mean you or your territory no harm. May I petition for save crossing across your lands?”

Lydia’s eyes flickered from him to the wendigo and back. Then she pulled out a card and flicked it over, holding it out to the shifter. “Call this number before you enter and as you leave,” she instructed as he took the card.

“I will,” the shifter said, genuine relief flooding his expression. Stiles nodded to himself, though no one could see him as he shrouded himself in darkness. “Thank you.”

Meanwhile, the wendigo had turned to the werewolves, blabbering. “-the vampire, he’s pack, he’s part of the pack, that’s why he lives there, that’s why he’s not dead! He-”

“Vampires don’t form packs,” the wolf in charge said, her lips curling. “We don’t get along with vampires. How much did you have to drink?”

“But,” the wendigo protested, head snapping around to stare at the chair Stiles vacated. “But he-!”

“Too much, apparently,” she decided, snorting. The werewolves laughed and shook their heads, turning to Lydia and dismissing the wendigo. “What strange things a drunk mind can come up with. Can we presume you will leave now that you’ve concluded your business?”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” Lydia told them, amusement twisting her enigmatic smile. Then she waved them off. “Yes, yes, I’ll leave you to celebrate in peace. No bloodshed necessary.”

“Good.”

Lydia turned without a second glance to the witches or wolves, sashaying out of the bar with a careless wave. Nobody followed her.

When they turned back to the table, the sleeping witches were gone.

No one had seen them leave.


End file.
